The life of a mom is filled with such a crazy array of emotions, adventures and the unexpected each and every day. I’m often saying that how we meet the crazy things in life can show what we’re made of. And finding the humor and lessons in each and every day can be a balm for any not-so-pleasant moment in life.

Kristen, the mom-blogger behind We Are THAT Family seems to have a particular knack for finding this humor, so today I’d like to introduce you to the story of an interesting “member” of their family.

This is Her Story

Dolls.

My second grader loves them. All of them. She has a vast collection of baby dolls, stuffed animals and accessories. My goodness, can she accessorize those babies: clothes, strollers, bibs, bottles, blankies, stuffed animals for the dolls.

It’s really out of hand.

But she gets it honestly. Her grandmother has been a doll collector for more than forty years. My mother honed in on her granddaughter’s interest and well, contributed. Greatly.

A couple of years ago, my daughter’s doll collection expanded to collectible dolls.

A Chatty Cathy doll. From the 1960’s.

I wasn’t too sure about this.

“Mom. She’s six. She will play with that doll. It won’t sit on a shelf and stay, well, collectible.”

This pleased my mother even more. The two of them shared a knowing look and went off and played together.

My daughter has played with her Chatty Cathy doll for two years. She has a better wardrobe than I do. And that’s saying a lot. Because I look smashing in my floral apron dress. She sits neatly in a tiny chair in the corner of her room. She is still in perfect condition.

Chatty Cathy is my daughter’s prized possession.

I’m writing this with a heavy heart because a tragedy occurred.

Chatty was violated in a terrible manner.

This is her story:

As Spring break came to an end, my kids wanted to do one more fun thing. They decided on a sleepover. With each other. Yes, when we say fun, we mean it.

We made a huge pallet on the floor for my son in his big sister’s room. My daughter started out there, but crawled back into her bed. Because her little brother was touching her, with his toe.

What a surprise.

Once the giggling and the arguing stopped, they fell asleep.

Just after midnight, my husband heard a sound. He got his shotgun—just kidding, he went upstairs and found my son in the hall.

My little guy is one of those freaky sleepwalkers. Since this was pretty normal, he sent him back to the pallet. My son got up again, before my husband was down the stairs.

In a slur of words he conveyed he ‘was hurting.’

“Do you hurt here,” my hubby asked and touched his arm. “Yeah.”

“How about here?”

“Uh huh.”

So, my husband carried him back to bed after discovering his leg, knee, both arms and earlobes hurt.

At this point, this would have been a clue to me. But it’s hard to be clued in when you’re in ‘la la land’ chasing around frosting covered cupcakes with extra sprinkles.

By the time my son was gagging, my husband was clued in.

I was wiping invisible pink cupcake frosting from my lips when I heard my husband in my sleep yelling in hushed tones, “I N-E-E-D You, N-O-W!”

That’s when it dawned on me: I should have told him about the vomit box.

I’d been carrying around a vomit box in my car for days. You know, just in case. My kids had been exposed at school, to a lovely bug I call affectionately ‘pukeydiarreah’ and I wanted to be prepared.

The vomit box sat lonely and unused in my car. How unfortunate. I promised my kids I wouldn’t pull over in a parking lot and make them hover over the box again, unless they actually needed it.

I was a little paranoid.

And with good reason. Apparently.

Nearly breaking my neck, I got to the top of the stairs.

That’s when it happened. I watched in horror as my husband realized a moment too late that my son was going to throw up. He snatched him up and swung him towards the door. As he did, a rainbow of lunch and dinner splattered onto Chatty Cathy.

She, the wall, the carpet, basically, the room were covered.

Sleep walking. For pete’s sake.

My husband carried my son into the bathroom, a little late if you asked me. And no one did. I was chasing cupcakes in my dreams, so I didn’t say a word.

I leaned down next to Chatty. (First, I listened for my daughter’s heavy breathing).

The poor dear. Her apron dress was filthy. Her hair, you don’t even want to know. Believe me.

I lovingly removed her clothes. I threw away her tiny hose and shoes. It was necessary.

I grabbed her by the string, the only unaffected part, and her voice broke the silence.

“Please take me with you,” she said in her clear dolly voice. HOLY MOLY.

Not only can she talk, she can feel. She knows.

I took her downstairs and did what any loving doll owner’s mother would do:

I sprayed the snot out of that doll. A whole can of Lysol from head to toe.

Whew. I felt better immediately.

I redressed her in another of her dainty outfits and started cleaning up the rest of the room. Even in the dark, in the middle of the night, my mother-sense said we’d need a professional carpet cleaner.

I was dead on.

We moved my son’s pallet downstairs for the long night ahead. Before I left my daughter’s stinky room, I whispered a prayer for my son’s health and for my daughter to be loving and forgiving to her sick brother.

I snuck Chatty Cathy back into her place and patted her head. I prayed that her keen doll sense would forget about this terrible night.

My son recovered quickly, Chatty seemed to be in good working order and smelled of fresh linen (a new delightful Lysol fragrance). She even chirped, “I love you” the next day when her string was pulled.

My daughter awoke to stained carpet and a very unpleasant odor. She referred to her brother as “Vomit-boy” all day.

If only she knew.

Categories: Highlights
Tags: chatty cathy, dolls